


Five Times Jamie Moriarty asked Joan Watson Out (and one time she grudgingly said yes)

by anamatics



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Bad Aliases, Bad Flirting, F/F, Gen, INSULTING THE BEES, Joan Watson is having none of this shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamatics/pseuds/anamatics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[or, five times Jamie Moriarty makes a horribly wrong assumption about Joan Watson, and one time she respects the hell out of her and finally gets what she wanted all along]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Jamie Moriarty asked Joan Watson Out (and one time she grudgingly said yes)

**Author's Note:**

> So Janie Bloriarty is definitely not something that I can ever claim ownership over. That alias was created by actionactioncut on tumblr and it is pure genius.

**1 -**

The first time it happens, Joan is convinced Sherlock is playing some sort of horrible practical joke on her until she realizes that no, this is exactly the sort of thing that she would do, and Sherlock would never dare attempt. He actually respects her boundaries, where as  _she_  most certainly does not.

Still, he's voiced his opinions on her use of online dating services before, after all, and has suggested casual hookups found via craigslist might be the way to get the endorphin rush she so obviously craves.  They work for him, he explains.  They should work for her as well.

Joan retorts that he's insane and stays up half the night finding and meticulously detailing as many articles as she can find about women being assaulted following responses to craigslist personal ads.  Sherlock is a bit ashen-faced when she hands him forty-five page long stack of reports of just such instances and tells her that he sees her point. 

He is noticeably silent the next time she receives an email from the dating site on her phone, although he does incline his head to one side as Joan lets out a spluttering noise and drops the phone like it's just shocked her.  It lands on the tabletop between them with a clatter and Joan winces, hoping she hasn’t broken the screen.

"What is it?" he asks, and bends it pick up the phone.  He reads the message, all of three lines of text and an emoji heart at the end, his eyebrows climbing higher and higher up his forehead as he does so.

Joan's heart is pounding in her chest as she reaches for the phone.

Sherlock passes it back to her.  "For all the creativity locked within that brain, I have to say that that is quite possibly the least original pseudonym I have ever read in my life."

"That's your reaction?  Sherlock, she's in federal lock up," Joan splutters, staring down at the email and committing the words to memory.  They had larger problems than lack of originality if  _she_  had access to a computer.

 _It's occurred to me, my dear Watson, that we have not spent nearly enough time together.  You intrigue me endlessly, although I must say that your profile here leaves something to be desired. You are attracted to beauty in all forms; why limit yourself to the truly abysmal selection of men on this website when you could have a woman? I, for one, would be honored to take you out._ ♥  _\--JB._

There is implication and double meaning all over the message and when Joan looks up at Sherlock, she knows that he's seen it too.  "You like women?" he asks, because he has the mind of a five year old and  _of course_  that is what he latches onto.

Joan shrugs.  Honestly, this sort of thing has never come up before between them.  Sherlock's pretty free with his associations with all people, but Joan's far more rigid, usually, and definitely a lot more private.  She blames it on a childhood in a culture that was not accepting of such ideas, or maybe on the reaction her mother had had once, seeing her kiss Wei Lin Larkin under the mistletoe at Christmas when she was in college.  How Moriarty had even known is completely beyond the scope of anything she's even prepared to try and process right now.

"Not in a long time," she says at length, and hopes Sherlock will let it drop.

He does, thankfully, and leaves Joan staring down at the dating profile that is linked to the message.  The name itself is so ridiculous that Joan wonders if she'd seriously just subbed out a few letters in a hurried attempt to disguise her identity, or if it was a calculated plan to throw off the prison guards that she'd obviously snuck around to set this up.  "The hell kind of a name is Janie Bloriarty anyway?" she mutters to herself, swiping her thumb over the message and deleting it.

-

 **2-**  
The letter comes to Sherlock's post box in the Bronx, sealed inside a note addressed to him and Joan is seething as he passes it over to her without a word and makes his way upstairs.  He's been gone half the morning, probably sitting in a coffee shop somewhere and writing that damn woman back.

The letter itself is written on the same stiff paper as all of Sherlock's correspondence with her, a creamy color that feels far heavier than most of the paper that Joan would consider using for correspondence that is probably going to be burned on sight.

 _My Dear Watson_  - The letter begins, and Joan wonders why everyone in her life suddenly only refers to her by her last name.  She blames the trend on college and medical school after, on relying on a western surname to differentiate herself from the many other Asian-American students who, like her, were pursuing a career in medicine because it was ‘respectable’ and what their parents wanted.  She’d been at the top of her class, just like them, and hating so much about who she’d become in those moments of rejecting so much about herself in an effort to appear different. Now though, it feels to Joan as though  _Joan_  is lost among the Watson she’s become and she’s desperately struggling to change that.

_You must be terribly cross with me for all that I did to save that child.  I cannot say that I blame you, for I too would not tolerate my partner in all things carrying on with another woman, particularly one as unhealthy to him as myself.  We send these letters back and forth like smoke signals across a plateau when a simple conversation would be just as easy._

_Sherlock, regrettably, is not capable of being anything but hostile towards me at the moment.  His letters of late have been terse and horribly rude in places.  I suspect that he is still struggling with my actions regarding the child._

_You understand, don't you Watson?  I did not, not at first, but introspection has made me realize that it was not for love at all that I did what I did. The child could not be harmed because that was what you wanted, dear Watson.  The child's safe return to the mother who'd raised her, not the mother who'd birthed her only to realize in that moment that the understanding I had sought through the act was utterly lost on one such as myself._

_As this realization has started to hit me, I've come to realize that maybe I need to spend some more time trying to understand why it is that I feel I cannot love.  You are the only person who has ever seen straight through me and into my soul, Joan Watson, twisted and rotten as it is._

_I've taken the liberty of adding you to my list of approved visitors, should you ever be amenable to lunch - or perhaps dinner - with me.  I find your insight into my character refreshing; I do not have to pretend around you, Joan Watson._

_Sherlock will be able to forward your response, and I do hope you'll respond._

_-J._

Joan runs a tired hand through her hair and slumps down onto the couch.  Her sweater is drooping over one shoulder and she's halfway to scowling at the page when it hits her.  This is the second time that it's happened too.  Moriarty has asked to see her, socially.  This time it's though a beautifully penned letter full of lies and false flattery, but it's as blatant as the other request, if she's looking properly.

Moriarty has asked her out, again.

She lets her head tilt back and allows a low groan to escape her lips.  "Whyyyyyy," she whines at the ceiling.

This is like the painting that had gone, largely, unmentioned, or like the sketches that she'd pretended she hadn't seen Moriarty drawing while she sat in the conference room at the precinct, supposedly looking through case files.  She carries a sketchbook and charcoal around, or so it would appear.  Joan has never understood artistic types, and it seems she understands Moriarty least of all.

"She's never painted something original before," Sherlock had whispered to Joan after it all was over and he was contemplating destroying the letters.  Joan had hoped, desperately, that he would, but Gregson had called and Joan had been left with the task of telling Sherlock that she'd pulled through, slashed wrists and all.  He'd turned to look at her then, eyes red and ringed with unshed tears.  "And she chose to paint you."

She should be flattered, she knows this.  But it just strikes her as another attempt by Moriarty to humanize herself.

The only problem is that this one might actually be working.

And Joan, for all that she hates to admit it, is far more annoyed than 'cross' with Moriarty.

-

 **3-**  
Life at the brownstone seems almost like a dream, after a while.  Joan keeps trying to push Sherlock into understanding that it isn't all about him, and Randall helps with that.  He's taken a liking to the bees that Joan still tries to stay away from, and Joan thinks that Sherlock actually enjoys Randy's presence in his life.

Alfredo, at least, is elated as to how Sherlock is progressing.  He sits with Joan in the kitchen of the brownstone, borrowing the wifi as they wait for Sherlock and Randy to be done with whatever they’ve got up to on the roof.  There’d been bags of soil and a whole bunch of seeds that had been planted hurriedly into little starter trays and situated in all the windows of the house.  Joan thinks they're making a raised garden bed for the bees to pollinate, but she's not about to intrude on their bonding time to ask.

"Aww," Alfredo mutters and Joan peers around to see him browsing facebook and cooing at what looks like baby pictures.  Joan inclines her head towards him and he grins at her.  "My little cousin," he explains.  "My aunt Shonda was big as a whale when I saw her last month, the baby came last week."  He smiles fondly at the picture.  "Think there's a naming party this weekend, I gotta call my mom."

The kid has an amazing stock of black curls on top of his head already, and Joan smiles as Alfredo hurriedly likes the picture and saves it to his hard drive.  She leaves him to his comment writing, as it's rather long and definitely sappy.  She doesn’t think he minds her seeing his softer side, but she can respect his want for privacy as he gushes over a baby.

She turns back to her own laptop, half-finished case notes on their most recent murder forgotten as she mouses over to the internet browser.  One of her tabs is open to the dating site that she's still trying to pretend that she doesn't frequent.  She has a new chat notification, which is strange; she could have sworn she'd disabled the chat function.

_jm.rty has sent you three messages._

"Oh for goodness' sake," Joan says testily.

Alfredo looks up, confusion clouding his features.  "What?"

"Some people," and Joan won't mention names, "Don't know how to leave well-enough alone."  She shrugs and smiles politely to Alfredo, "It's nothing."

She clicks the blinking chat icon and frowns at the messages that have been sent to her appear.

**_jm.rty_ **  
_Hello, Joan Watson._  
 **_jm.rty_ **  
_I hope I haven't surprised you, but after the last misadventure on this website, it was suggested to me that perhaps using something closer to my real name would ensure that you would actually respond to my messages._  
 **_jm.rty_ **  
_and you will respond, won't you?_

 

_j.wtsn is now online._

 

**_jm.rty_ ** _  
Hello, Joan Watson._

Joan lets out a quiet breath of air, staring at the chat window.  There are a thousand questions that come to mind, most pressing being how the hell she was able to access the internet at all.

**_j.wtsn_ **  
_I take it you've negotiated yourself more perks?_  
 **_jm.rty_ **  
_Perks? Not at all, Joan.  I did tell you to come see me in a year, didn't I?  The wonderful marshals have let me go, you see, I gave them a few names that stopped a potential nuclear arms sale in Iran..._

Joan grits her teeth and tries not to smash the keyboard as she responds, irritation ticking at the back of her eye.

**_j.wtsn_ **  
_I suppose that this means you'll be coming for us now?_

  
_jm.rty is typing..._

 

_jm.rty is typing..._

Joan watches the chat window, knowing that the constant pop-up notification of 'is typing' means that someone is typing and then deleting things and then typing again. She wonders what Moriarty is having second thoughts about saying.

**_jm.rty_ **  
_Really?_  
 **_jm.rty_ **  
_Do you think so little of me, Joan?  I told you that you interest me, same as Sherlock, and that I'd like to figure you out.  I won't be 'coming for you,' as you put it because I won't need to.  You'll come for me._  
 **_j.wtsn_ **  
_What would happen if I didn't?_

 

_jm.rty is typing..._

Joan hates that she's probably right.  Alfredo is humming Beyoncé under his breath and typing.  She glances over at him, and laughs as he makes a face and turns his laptop around to show something his aunt had uploaded onto instagram.  Joan can't help but laugh at the picture, but her eyes flick down to her own screen and she can feel her face fall into what can only be described as an irritated scowl.

**_jm.rty_ **  
_Absolutely nothing._  
 **_jm.rty_ **  
_You'll come though, because you're as curious as I am._

Joan shakes her head and moves to close the window before she thinks better of it, an idea occurring to her that is sure to grate Moriarty's grill.

**_j.wtsn_ **  
_Tell me something, are you truly that unoriginal, or do you actually use Janie Bloriarty as an alias?_  
 **_jm.rty_ **  
_Come and find me Watson, and I'll tell you all about it._

Joan closes the window, and her laptop, and leans back in her chair.  "Did you know," she begins, smiling slow and easy at Alfredo.  "That Sherlock's ex might actually be the most uncreative person in the world when it comes to making up aliases?"

Alfredo lets out a short bark of laughter and shakes his head, and Joan tells him all about Moriarty's horrible made-up names on the dating site.

"You know," Alfredo says later, half-way through the cup of tea that Joan's brewed for them both.  "I think that she might actually be, you know, trying to ask you out."

Joan looks away, biting at her lip.

"Which is a huge violation of the bro code, by the way," Alfredo adds.  As if Sherlock hasn't already made it clear that while he's okay with the letters (that Joan has studiously ignored [and saved every one]), he finds the idea of Joan seeing her without him is deeply worrying and has asked that she not do it.  They don't know what sort of revenge she might be planning, after all. "I wouldn't touch that kinda crazy with a ten-foot pole."

"I know," Joan confesses.  "I just wish she'd stop trying to figure me out and just be herself.  Her normal, slightly sociopathic and avowed murderer self.  It'd be easier not to be so intrigued then."

He shakes his head.  "Ten. Foot. Pole."

Joan lets out a low groan.  This has  _got_  to stop.

-

**4-**

"You," Sherlock announces as he whirls around to face the intruder in the room.  He’d been on his knees examining the underside of a couch not half a second before he’d stood abruptly, his nose twitching.  Joan had watched him do this and had wondered what was up, only to find herself turning with him, compression dawning easily across her face. "Need to get better control over your former lieutenants."

She's leaning against the doorframe, clad in a black trench coat still wet from the rain outside, arms folded over her chest and a smug smile over her face.  Joan watches her through narrowed eyes as she regards Sherlock like he’s her favorite toy just returned after being lost.

"Well, I could," she says, all teeth and a smile that looks almost fond to Joan.  It sets her teeth on edge. The woman is toxic to Sherlock in every sense of the word, but she’s here and obviously the police have let her in, so she must have  _something_  they can go off of.  Joan grits her teeth and tries to remain as calm as possible, remembering only too well how the last time they’d met in person had gone.  "But I've just spent an inordinately long time in captivity and I'd rather not risk my freedom to deal with an in-house problem."  She tilts her head to one side and adds, “Accidents happen to people in my line of work all the time.”

“If this is the part where you try and say ‘he ran into my knife ten times,’ I may have to leave,” Joan says quietly.  Her feet are cold and wet, it’s raining outside and Joan’s already foul mood doesn’t look to be improving, what with their newfound Jamie Moriarty-shaped lead standing in the doorway acting all smug and superior for  _not_  immediately killing one in her organization who has gone rogue. 

Sherlock glances over at Joan, the reference obviously escaping him, but Moriarty (irritatingly) gets it and her smile turns from smug to genuine to actually amused.  “Why Watson, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Joan shakes her head and plunges her hands into her pockets.  “We should talk to the victim’s wife; she might know who did this.” She turns to stare at Moriarty, who’s now come into the room and is actually doing the same thing Sherlock did just a few minutes ago, and is checking under the couch for something.  She’s pulled on gloves, somewhere in the process, too, just to be extra irritating.

“No need,” she says, reaching under the couch and tugging gently.  There’s the sound of tape being pulled from fabric and then Moriarty is standing with a leather folio full of money and passports and probably a gun.  She hands it over to Sherlock, who takes it and unzips it fully, a gun pitches forward but Sherlock’s quick enough to catch it before it falls to the floor.  He holds it for a long time, before raising the barrel up and sniffing it.  He shakes his head and Joan resists the urge to groan.  The gun hasn’t been fired recently. 

“The victim is the father of one of my lieutenants, you’re right about that, although I don’t understand why Izzie would shoot her own father…” Moriarty taps her chin on one side and hums thoughtfully.  “I would have guessed she’d do her mother. Always struck me as a bit of a daddy’s girl.”

Isabelle Jones is the first woman that they’ve ever encountered that’s employed by Moriarty, so Joan’s not entirely sure what to think about that. She’d always put Moriarty’s seeming inability to understand women on the overall lack of women within her organization.  For there to be a woman who obviously close to the center of Moriarty’s web totally throws Joan for a loop.  Moriarty plays on stereotypes and an inherent misogyny that she somehow thinks herself above, so why have a woman in her organization at all?

Joan wonders if she’s a new addition, meant to throw them off the trail of truly understanding Moriarty.  It doesn’t seems so, as Moriarty stands before a family photo of Isabelle and her parents, her jaw a hard line and her expression completely unreadable.  Joan wonders if they were once friends, or maybe even confidants.  She doesn’t think Moriarty could have such a relationship, but Joan cannot shake the fact that this is obviously bothering her. 

They leave the crime scene and head back to the precinct, Moriarty trailing half a step behind them, hands in her pockets and her expression pensive.  Sherlock keeps scowling over his shoulder at her, but he’s actually showing remarkable restraint to not result to the petty name calling and full on emotional meltdowns of the last time they met.  Joan wonders if their correspondence truly has helped him to move on, to treat her as Joan treats the faces of those she’s slept with in the past. 

Captain Gregson listens to all that Moriarty can give them on Isabelle Jones, and he and Bell decide to start a canvas, putting an APB on Isabelle’s description and the make and model car that she owns, according to DMV records.  Sherlock sits across a table from Moriarty and inspects the leather folio from under the couch. 

“These are nearly-flawless fakes,” he says, staring down at the British, Canadian and EU passports before him.  He picks up the Canadian one and gestures to Joan.  “See how the pigment of the ink is bleeding ever so slightly on the maple leaf?  That’s the only tell I can see, but it would fool any non-observant TSA official, no questions asked.” 

Joan can barely see what he’s talking about, but there is something that’s just a little off about the whole passport.  She thinks that it’s the way that the stitching that’s holding the blinding together isn’t a blend of red, write and blue, it’s pure white.  Every Canadian passport she’s ever encountered has had had the tri-colored stitching. She remembers seeing it and laughing at it, back in college when a friend from Montreal had, at 19, tried to use her passport as proof that she could legally buy beer and had subsequently gotten them both kicked out of a bar. 

“I do requite my people to have the best,” Moriarty comments.  She’s taken off her rain jacket and is sitting in a shirt and pants that probably cost more than Joan makes in a month, looking right at home in the room despite the fact that everyone who works in this building knows that she’s killed at least four people.  Joan’s willing to put the number much higher, but she knows better than to make assumptions without hard evidence. 

And Joan, really, cannot help herself.  “If they’re the best then why didn’t they use multicolored-colored thread?”

Both Sherlock and Moriarty look at her with confused eyes and Joan shrugs.  “Every Canadian passport  _I’ve_  ever seen has had tri-colored - red, white,and blue- stitching, not white,” she explains. 

They don’t have the time to respond, as Marcus comes hurrying into the room, a pink memo slip in hand. “We’ve got another dead body,” he says.  “Captain wants you all to come along.”

When a second dead body, this time belonging to one Isabelle Jones, the entire case seems to twist and mutate into something that none of them can quite wrap their head around.  Sherlock posits that if it had been Isabelle who’d shot her father, she would have taken her ‘go bag’ as Moriarty had called it and left.  She wouldn’t have left a potential smoking gun at the crime scene for them to find.

Joan watches Moriarty as she nods a positive identification to the medical examiner, her face a stormy mask.  Sherlock sees it too, a frown drifting across his face. “She won’t say,” he says quietly to Joan as they bend to look at a stray bullet hole in the brick wall behind where Isabelle has been shot.  “But I think they were somewhat close.”

Joan rolls her eyes and doesn’t tell him ‘duh’ because she’s an adult and is having a hard time wrapping her head around it herself.

It’s only later, when they’ve found Isabelle Jones’ mother nearly suicidal on the roof of the apartment building where they lived, sobbing and crying about how her daughter was a murderer and her husband allowed it all to happen, that Joan thinks to ask Moriarty why this has bothered her so much.  She’s been remarkably silent, for one so egotistical, and she doesn’t even bother to look up from where she’s standing at the edge of the roof when Joan goes to stand beside her.

“I suppose you’re rather confused right now, aren’t you, Watson?” she says.  It’s still misting slightly, and her hair is hanging limply around her face.  Joan pulls a hair tie off of her wrist and holds it out to her wordlessly.  Moriarty takes it and pulls her hair back, and Joan can see that her make up’s run, just a little bit. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Joan replies, not meeting Moriarty’s gaze.  “Just wondering about things in general.”

She laughs then, but it’s devoid of any feeling.  It’s a simple bark of sound that flits from her lips and is drowned out by the sounds of crime scene investigators and the roar of the city all around them. “You thought I was as bad as any of the men in my field, didn’t you?  Taking advantage of their weaknesses while having them same ones myself.”

Joan blinks, because that was not at all what she was curious about, although it has struck her as odd.  She’s about to cover for herself when she sees the look on Moriarty’s face.  It’s a gambit that she’s tossed out, and Joan thinks that this time, at least, she could to let her run with it.  “I had wondered about that,” she says as carefully as she can, thinking before she says each word so as not to upset whatever this balance is. 

Moriarty turns to stare back out and over the city, her expression unreadable.  They’re silent for a long time before she finally speaks once more. “Women,” she begins, “in this line of work are rare, you know?  The men all but drown them out.”

Joan thinks back to the criminology books she’s read as part of her training with Sherlock.  She can name all the major serial killers one by one, but she’s got to get to at least ten before it occurs to her to add a woman’s name.  Moriarty’s right, the women are afterthoughts, but if Joan really thinks about it, they’re some of the most prolific killers of them all. 

“Izzie wasn’t particularly good at it, but she had ways of getting into places where she shouldn’t have been allowed.  She was good at gathering information, all sorts, and for that I found her useful,” Moriarty says quietly.  She shifts from foot to foot, before turning and touching Joan’s arm with feather-light fingers.  “Could I buy you a coffee, Joan Watson, and tell you more about her?”

And Joan, for all that she wants to say yes, remembers Alfredo’s comment about the bro code and all those dead bodies on the floor of that abandoned building.  She remembers the look on Sherlock’s face when Irene, his supposedly dead, beautiful Irene, rose from the grave to stand before him reborn and completely falsely traumatized.  She remembers that she hates so much about this woman, her incorrect assumptions about Joan and her petty little games that play with people’s lives just for her own amusement. 

Joan shakes her head.  “Another time, maybe?”  She offers a small smile, out a politeness her mother taught her long ago, and turns to leave.  She’s taken all of three steps when she hears Moriarty’s quiet chuckle and the clear statement of her intent.

“I’m going to keep asking, you know.”

 _Good_ , Joan thinks, not bothering to turn around as she crosses the rooftop towards Sherlock and Marcus and their now solved case.

-

**5 -**

She becomes almost a fixture at the brownstone after Isabelle Jones' murder.  And Joan doesn't really understand why Moriarty has chosen to linger.  Marcus tells her that the marshals and the FBI are keeping an eye on her movements and that she's probably trying to keep a low profile.  Joan thinks that she's actually just trying to be exceedingly irritating.

One exceedingly warm day, some three months after the Jones case, Moriarty rings the doorbell wearing a truly ridiculous sunhat and dress combination that makes Joan's skin crawl it looks so bizarre on her on her. Jamie Moriarty is all hard lines and crisp folds to Joan. This foray into the more whimsical makes Joan shake her head as she answers the door.

"Nice hat," she says, because honestly, it's almost wider than the doorway and that's pretty goddamn ridiculous if Joan says so herself.

And the woman has the audacity to almost look self-conscious.  "I burn easily," she explains, fingering the hat as though it is an annoyance and not a truly spectacular conversation piece.  "Can't be too careful after the first one."

Ah yes, the melanoma that had led to Sherlock putting the pieces together when she'd come back from the dead.  Joan sighs and steps away from the door.  "Come in then," she says because she still follows the rules of being a doctor even if her license to practice medicine is expired.  Do no harm, even if it's well and truly deserved.

 Without the stupid hat, Moriarty looks like any other girl about in the city when it's this hot out.  She's got a bag with a sketch pad sticking out of the top and she's regarding Joan like she looks good enough to eat.  Joan shifts under the gaze, and wonders when it’s stopped bothering her. 

"Why are you here?" Joan asks, even though she can already hear the answer.

"I was wondering if I might entice you out," Moriarty explains.  "My study of you is long-complete, but I'd love a chance to sketch you from life." She glances down at her bag and adds, almost as an afterthought, “I brought lunch.”

Joan scoffs.  "At least do me the decency of not lying to me."  She folds her arms over her tank-top and tries to ignore the feeling of Moriarty's eyes on her. Even if it doesn’t  _bother_ her, it’s still uncomfortable.  Joan’s not used to being stared at so openly.   "You told me long that once you'd figured me out, you'd move on.  You wouldn't still be here, asking me out, again, if you'd actually put the pieces together, Jamie."

Maybe it's because Joan's used her first name, or maybe it's because Joan is actually calling her on her bullshit; but Moriarty smiles then, and it's real and genuine and astonishingly beautiful.  Joan swallows and looks away, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying anything else.

"Has it never occurred to you, my dear Watson, that I might keep asking because that is what I want?" She's smiling faintly still, and Joan can't help but wonder what might happen if she ever had yes.  She won't though, she won't until Moriarty gets it through her head that this won't work and that she has to stop making assumptions about, well, everything.

Joan stands in the middle of the foyer of the brownstone and shakes her head.  Because yes, it has occurred to her.  It's occurred to her so many times and it makes her feel confused and awkward.  It makes her feel like she's tip-toeing through a minefield.  It makes her feel so many things that she should not be feeling.

"It has, actually," Joan says simply, and shrugs. She doesn't mind the idea of sitting for some sketches.  "I'll sit for sketches here," she adds.  "Where there is air conditioning."

Jamie Moriarty follows her into the living room, a smile on her face that betrays nothing save a victory that she hasn't actually earned.  She tells Joan where to sit and says she can keep reading her book and Joan sits and reads her book and they enjoy a peaceful afternoon of decidedly not talking to each other.  And lunch sits forgotten in Moriarty’s bag.

-

**Or –**

Honestly, Joan is surprised that this hasn’t happened yet.  She’s just a little surprised about the players and events involved.

What’s happened is this:  Joan has spent the better part of the morning trying to think of a reason to leave the house as Sherlock and Moriarty discuss, of all asinine things, beekeeping.  Moriarty had arrived at six thirty in the morning carrying what looks suspiciously like an overnight bag.  Joan had been asleep, peacefully, having a very nice dream that did not involve Sherlock’s evil ex-girlfriend at all, when Moriarty had made a grave error and had  _insulted the bees._ The raised voices outside her door had woken her up as they moved up the stairs towards the roof.

Normally, this was when Joan rolled out of bed and texted Ms. Hudson and asked if she’d like to spend the entire day shopping somewhere on the other side of the city.  She wasn’t about to try and get into the middle of one of their fights.  Joan trusted Sherlock enough to not try and do anything stupid like have vicious ex-sex with Moriarty, but she wasn’t entirely sure that she trusted Moriarty not to try to do the same. 

This morning, however, she simply shrugged and sleepily made her way downstairs to put the kettle on. Three tea bags of tea and some rather slow and careful walking later, she’s out on the roof with the two arguing idiots offering them tea and asking why the hell they’re both up so early.

Sherlock hasn’t gone to sleep, but Moriarty actually looks tired.  “Just got in,” she says distractedly.  “The red-eye out of Seattle is truly the worst torture known to man.”

Joan inclines her head to one side.  “Screaming babies?”

“Seven,” Moriarty groans and takes the tea gratefully. She cups it to her chin and smiles softly at Joan. “Thank you.”

Joan finds herself smiling sleepily back at her.  She looks a lot less dangerous than usual, jet-lagged and exhausted.  No, Moriarty is simply tired and wanting to argue with Sherlock about his bees and their raised garden beds.  Joan likes her best this way, because she’s non-threatening and just a person that Joan maybe could possibly be attracted to, if she could ever divorce herself from the whole messy mass-murderer aspect of Moriarty’s personality.

The roof is much nicer now that Sherlock and Randy have decided to try their hands at rooftop container gardening.  Joan has had to make him reinforce the roof in a few places, but it’s truly lovely up here now.  Joan takes in all the bees and the clothesline and Sherlock’s single-stick gear strewn about one corner of the roof.  He must have been practicing when Moriarty arrived; it explains his lack of shirt.

Speaking of shirts, Joan stands holding the two remaining teacups and watches as he crosses over to collect it from where it’s half-blown off the roof and pulls it on.  Joan is pretty sure that he’s uncomfortable being shirtless around her.  Moriarty, for her part, just sips her tea and raises a single eyebrow at him. 

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

She nods.

“Right, well, since you’ve been so kind as to point out the lack of certain flora in my rooftop garden beds, I am off to see about acquiring them.  Please don’t steal anything.”  He turns on his heel, plucks his mug of tea from Joan’s hands and marches off towards the door and back into the brownstone.

Joan blinks, watching him go.  “What did you say to him?” she asks.

Moriarty sighs and settles herself into what Joan has dubbed Sherlock’s bee-watching chair.  “I told him that I could smell the poppies,” she gestures around to the red and orange poppies that Sherlock has growing up runners at a few corners of the roof, “from the street and I suggested that if he wanted to have a better yield he should perhaps plant some herbs like  _thymus_ or  _mentha_ to add flavor to the honey.”

It is far too early in the morning for Latin names of garden plants, but Joan nods slowly.  “That is a good point,” she concedes. Somewhere below them, the door slams shut and Joan crosses over to watch as Sherlock makes his way up the road towards the subway station, hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders hunched.  She doesn’t think he’ll go as far as the Home Depot, but you never really know with him.  She turns back to see Moriarty inspecting the bees more closely, a curious expression dancing across her lips.  “What were you doing in Seattle?” she asks.

“Business,” Moriarty explains simply.  “I had a meeting that couldn’t be done over the phone.”

Ever since her release, as far as Joan knows, the FBI and Interpol have been keeping a close eye on Moriarty's movements.  And, given her apparent lack of originality when it came to making up aliases, Moriarty has actually been good about staying put and traveling on her real passport.  Or at least the most real passport of her's that they have information on.

"Is it as rainy there as the movies say?"  Joan asks, because she's only been to Seattle on layovers going other places and it’s looked like a decent place.

"It's abysmal," Moriarty replies.  She doesn't elaborate, but there's mud splattered on the tops of her boots.  What was she up to in Seattle?  The question comes unbidden, but Joan's pretty sure that if she asks, she'll get an odd answer.  Moriarty likes to speak in riddles when she thinks that Joan actually wants something from her.

Joan sometimes pauses in the quiet moments like this and wonders how they've come so far only to still feel like they're constantly going backwards.  Moriarty is gone as a villain in their lives, her operations supposedly neutered by her want to stay out of jail.  Now she's just a person who comes round on occasion, to talk to Sherlock about things and occasional shyly smile at Joan through long eyelashes and poorly concealed interest. 

"Once you asked me if I was interested in women," Moriarty says, bringing up a conversation that Joan scarcely remembers.  Words said in anger and in disgust, trying to get away from the perceived corrupting influence of Moriarty's shameless flirting.  "Or just in you."

Joan cups her mug between her hands and settles down next to Moriarty on her own bee watching chair.  "You told me you were 'when it suits you.'"

"It was a lie," Moriarty explains tiredly. "It's more than when it suits me.  You, Izzie, there have been more women in my life than men.  I am attracted to people who interest me, hard, complicated people that take more than a passing moment to figure out.  I... struggle to understand women.  Men, for the most part are easy."

"Except Sherlock," Joan says quietly, because she understands that sentiment intimately.

Moriarty's face darkens and she fiddles with the tag on the tea bag that's still dangling from her tea mug.  "Yes, except for dear Sherlock.  There was one other, but that was a long time ago."

The girl's father.

The ultimate and confounding mystery of Jamie Moriarty: a little girl with brown hair and intelligent blue eyes.

"Why are you telling me this?" Joan asks.  The sun is rising now, higher into the sky and the warm fall morning is starting to glow with changing leaves and the beginning of a cool hint on the air.

"I met someone... I did not expect in Seattle."  Moriarty bites her lip and looks away.  It’s the most open that Joan has ever seen her, and it’s an odd look on her.  "And I... I suppose I felt like I owed it to you to be honest for a change."

Joan stares at her hard, swallowing nervously and trying to parse out the hidden meanings in that statement.  There are many, she knows.

A crash from below derails her train of though and she just about jumps out of her skin, slopping lukewarm tea all over her sweater sleeves as Joan lurches to her feet and pads silently over to the side of the roof and peers over.

Two men clad all in black are standing by the door while a third has leveled a drill at their deadbolt.  From here, Joan can see guns at their belts and the sophistication of their gear.  This isn’t good.  "Shit," she whispers, and half trips over herself backing away.

Moriarty catches her, gentle hands righting her without a word.  Her expression is grim as she glances down over the side of the building, her jaw working in a tight line.  "They're not mine," she whispers to Joan as she half drags Joan back over to the beehives.

Joan believes her, there's no lie in her eyes or in her voice.  It makes the situation all the more terrifying.  "What do we do?" she asks, her voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the beehives.

"I see this going one of two ways," Moriarty replies, her eyes darting around to the rooftops around them, looking for something that Joan know cannot be good.  "The first is that they don't bother to come up here, we sit here and wait until they're gone..." she stares hard at a rooftop across the street, and reaches forward to take Joan's hand, her grip far stronger than Joan had been anticipating.  "I need you to stay very still," she says calmly, and her eyes are deathly serious.

Joan freezes, she doesn't even dare breathe.  "Why?"

"They have a lookout." Moriarty's eyes dart towards that rooftop again and Joan follows her gaze.  At first she sees nothing, and then she sees a glint of light where there shouldn't be any at all.  Joan swallows.  Sniper with a scope. "And the lookout is armed.  It seems option one is no longer viable."

"So they know we're here," Joan's heart is hammering in her chest.  "God, we haven't even pissed anyone off recently."

She chuckles, her hand squeezing Joan's almost affectionately.  "Do you trust me?" she asks.

Joan stares at her, because there really isn't an easy answer to that.  She trusts Moriarty to not want either of them to get killed by random home invaders.  She swallows nervously, and then nods once.  Watching with what she later realizes can only be resignation as Moriarty bends to pick up her oversized purse, looking for all the word like she's after a pen or something.  She lets Joan's hand drop and unearths two objects, which she keeps obscured in the bag.  Joan rises on her tiptoes and peers into the bag.

Gun.  And silencer.

"No," Joan says shakily.

"Those men are armed, Watson.  They mean to kill whomever they find in this place." Moriarty cocks the gun and pulls a bullet into the chamber, flicking off the safety with one fluid motion.  Joan wonders how she managed to get a gun through airport security, or if she'd simply picked it up upon return to New York.

And the worst part is that Joan knows that they don't have much of a choice in this matter.  She knows it and she hates it, and she cannot think of a single person she'd rather have in a firefight.  "Don't kill them," she says, wrapping her arms and damp sweater sleeves around herself.

After staring at Joan for a long time, her head tilted to one side and her expression pensive, Moriarty laughs and leans forward, her face far too close for Joan's comfort.  "When I say go, run for the fire escape."

"What will you do?" Joan asks.

"Cover you in case their look out gets antsy.  There's a car, 2011 black Lexus sedan, parked up the street, northbound.  The driver's name is Nicolosi," she reaches into her purse and tosses Joan a set of keys.  "Take those and give them to him, I'll be right behind you."  She leans forward once, pressing the keys into Joan's palm.  Her lips come within a hair's breadth of Joan's and Joan can see the fear that's barely concealed behind Moriarty's determined gaze.  "Go," she says, and turns.  Joan stares at her for a moment as she levels a handgun, which will not reach the opposite building against a sniper at the point where their watcher is, one eye closed and staring him down as he stares her down right back.  Joan cuts across the roof towards the far wall, where the metal rungs of the fire escape ladder stick up above the raised brick railing that surrounds most of the brownstone's roof.

She kicks off her flip-flops and shoves them into her sweater's front, tucking that into her sleep shorts and hurrying down the ladder.  They’re three floors up and it's terrifying, watching and listening for the inevitable crack and pop of gunfire.

Half a second after Joan reaches the bottom, she sees Moriarty's figure appear at the top, gesturing for her to go.

And Joan runs for the Lexus, thanking the stars that running has instilled an innate sense of direction in her, and that she hurries towards the right Lexus that's parked on their street.

A large, balding guy in a suit is sitting behind the steering wheel, a to-go cup of coffee from the 7-Eleven up the street in one hand and the sports pages in the other.  Joan taps on the window and he starts, before turning to stare at Joan with narrowed eyes.  He cracks the door open and grunts a, "What?" before Joan can shove the keys at him and Moriarty sprints out from the alley behind the brownstone.

"Shit," the guy, Nicolosi, mutters.  He throws his paper down and stashes the cup in the center console. Joan watches as he jams the key into the ignition.  "Get in," he says and Joan does as soon as the locks on the back door pop open.  The motor starts and Moriarty slides into the seat next to Joan and slams the door behind her.

The gun, Joan notices, smells as though it's been freshly fired.

"You didn't hurt anyone, did you?" Joan asks as Nicolosi keeps casting worried glances at the pair of them in the rear-view mirror.

Moriarty flicks the safety of the gun back on and sets on the seat next to her.  She's practically in Joan's lap, her breath coming in deep, even pulls that are so unlike the adrenaline-fueled gasps that are currently plaguing Joan.  "With this?" she says, giving it a dirty look.  Joan supposes that even a superior marksman couldn’t use a handgun to do a sniper’s job.  "Not hardly.  I shot out their tires."

Joan lets out a quiet sigh of relief and allows herself to slump against Moriarty's shoulder.  She's wearing flip-flops, shorts and an oversized sweater that she tends to favor in the mornings and somehow she doesn't even care that Moriarty is fully dressed.  She just wants to stay here and know that beyond anything else, Moriarty will keep her safe.

"Go around the block Nick," Moriarty says to Nicolosi, who nods his compliance and slides the privacy screen into place between the front and back of the car.

"Who were those people?" Joan asks.

Moriarty shakes her head.  "I have no idea.  You haven't had a case in a few days; I know that, so this is probably an old enemy."

Joan thinks of the trunk still locked in her bedroom, full of all of Sherlock's personal failures.  She thinks of all the electronics in the house and the garden on the roof and the...  "Oh my god..." she says, head whipping around to stare out the back of the car.  "The  _bees_."

"The bees?" Moriarty looks confused.  Joan can’t help but think that the look doesn’t suit her at all.

"Sherlock must have told you, he tells everyone, that he's bred a new species of bee.  Last week he got approached by some sort of agricultural super corporation – we never could figure out which one - who wanted to purchase a queen in order to study the species' effects on pollination within their hives.  Sherlock turned them down and said some... not nice things to them on their way out."  Joan’s hand rises up to cover her mouth.  "I ... I can't believe that they'd just go and try to steal one anyway."

Moriarty is staring at her like she’s just told her that pigs roasted her pork chops for dinner.  “Bees?” she says, and she sounds incredulous.  “They’re after the  _bees_?”

Joan shrugs, eyebrows raised and hands open in the universal ‘search me’ gesture.

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?”  Moriarty leans across Joan and rolls down the privacy screen.   She smells like sweat and a bit like airplane still, but mostly a scent that Joan finds herself breathing deeper to take in.  And her cheeks burn when Moriarty turns her head slightly to grin at her.  “Nick, I need you to stay with Ms. Watson.  I need to take care of this before it escalates.”

She’s out of the car before Joan can protest, the gun still conspicuous on the seat beside her.  Joan watches her dart into the brownstone, and lets out a rough and ragged breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. 

Nicolosi, from the front seat, has noticed the gun on the seat beside Joan as well, and has let out a worried sounding grunt.  Joan fiddles with her wet sleeves and tries not to glance too worriedly towards the half-open front door every few seconds.

She hasn’t taken the gun, but what else could Moriarty possibly have against three armed, complete with sniper back-up, men?  Joan doesn’t think for a second it’s her charming personality.

When Moriarty emerges from the brownstone door some ten minutes later, not a scratch on her, Joan half leaps from the car to hurry over towards her.  The gun is forgotten, left on the seat with Nicolosi shaking his head and scowling at his boss in the mirror. 

“What did you do?” Joan demands, as Moriarty grabs her by the hand and pulls her into the house.  There are three men bound and gagged on the floor, their weapons arranged prettily on the couch before them and a note affixed to the one closest to the door. 

 _Dear Sherlock,_ the note reads. _Have taken the liberty of apprehending these would-be thieves.  Watson believes that they are after your bees.  You may want to consider better home security on the front door.  Deadbolt took them all of two minutes.  I maintain my point regarding lavender and clover, even if you hate the smell. Ta, -J._

Joan looks down at the men and glances at Moriarty.  “There’s no chance they can escape those bonds?”

Moriarty looks mildly insulted.  She bends and tugs on one of the ropes (which she’s found god-knows where – Joan has money on Sherlock’s closet.  There are _things_ in there of which Joan will not speak), a smile playing at her lips as the guy lets out a squeak of pain.  “I don’t think they’ll be going anywhere for a while, until Sherlock gets home to sort them out.”  She tilts her head, looking up at Joan through blonde hair that’s entirely too distracting.  “Are you hungry? I’m famished.”

“Give me five minutes,” Joan says, bounding up the steps to her bedroom.  This is the first time she’s said yes, she knows this.  But this is also the first time that Moriarty hasn’t lied to her, the first time that she’s ever respected Joan’s wishes, and Joan’s more than willing to offer that a reward.  She’s still not sure if she wants to say yes for real, because of Sherlock and Alfredo’s bro code and the fact that Jamie Moriarty murders and blackmails people for a living.

But one date, Joan thinks, she can acquiesce to. 

She dresses in jeans and an old flannel shirt that once belonged to Oren.  It falls down past her knee and she tugs dry sweater on over her head.  The day is warm, but it isn’t that warm.  She’d been under dressed on the roof. 

Moriarty is standing by the door, her hands in her pockets, waiting. She’s gone upstairs and gotten her things from the roof, it seems.  Joan collects her purse and tugs on her boots and nods once to Moriarty.  She doesn’t notice that Moriarty’s added a post script to her note until Sherlock points it out to her later that night and asks how it’s gone.  It’s in that moment that Joan realizes that the bro code is silly and that attraction doesn’t really work that way.  Sherlock is clear with her then, that she shouldn’t do this without being prepared for it to end badly.

And Joan definitely doesn’t think about the gentle kiss on her cheek when Moriarty had returned her to the brownstone’s front door.  Because he’d know for sure then and some secrets need to remain that way, even if it’s only for a little while.

_Have taken Joan out to breakfast._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing originally started as an exchange between actionactioncut and osito_panda (who has since changed her url to brocanteur) on tumblr. Sorry not sorry for inflicting this on y'all. Also I made all the shit up about Canadian passports so if that's wrong let's just pretend it isn't I spent way too much time googling it and am probably on a list somewhere because of it.
> 
> e: sixseater has wonderfully pointed out that I was wrong re: passports so now I'm totally on an NSA watchlist, but I've fixed the fic to be way more accurate.


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